


Comfort After Endurance

by spinel



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Gigolas Week, Helm's Deep, Mild Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-19
Updated: 2014-02-19
Packaged: 2018-01-13 01:52:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1208392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spinel/pseuds/spinel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The battle of Helm's Deep takes its toll on Legolas. A stolen moment between the end of the battle at Helm's Deep and riding to Isengard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Comfort After Endurance

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Days 2 and 3 [Gigolas Week](http://gigolasweek.tumblr.com/). I have combined the prompts from Day 2 ('Helm's Deep') and Day 3 'Fangorn Forest/Glittering Caves') because I wanted Legolas to subtly pine. Also, I was totally late.
> 
> I am trying to get a handle on writing from Gimli's point of view, but it is _really_ hard. With the hopes that I am not too far off the mark.

"You tell of a routed spring in the Keep," Gimli says, weary beyond measure. His head is throbbing, the constant pulling of the gash at his hairline beating in sluggish time with his steady heart.

"Yes." Legolas pauses, seemingly lost. "Yes. There is a spring." He is terse, a stark contrast to the effusivity which has greeted Gimli when Legolas laid eyes upon him hours ago and discovered he yet lived. It is obvious he makes a concerted effort to continue speaking. "Would you bathe your wound, mellon?" His voice is flat and listless.

"Nay, Legolas." Gimli claps him heartily up on the shoulder, and he feels the narrow Elvish muscles jump and shudder under his gloved palm. He bites his lip in concern. "I would try and get rid of the blood I am soaked in before riding forth," he finally says, nose wrinkling in distaste. "None would wish to bathe in Orc blood, although little ill will come out of it if I do not indulge."

"No, let us go! Your speech is true, Gimli, and a wash would prove beneficial." Legolas sounds a modicum more enthused, and Gimli's apprehension fractionally eases.

"Trust an Elf to frolic in water," he gamely continues, but the barb falls flat, for Legolas does not take it on as he usually would. He looks at Gimli instead, eyes wide as if he is seeing _through_ him, beseeching, and Gimli is not appreciating the furrow in between those fine brows one bit. With a grunt and a gloved palm to Legolas' back, he sets them towards the keep through the bloodied and gory grassland, Orc carcasses strewn across the valley of the Hornburg, the decaying mixture matting the underside of their leather boots. Care shall be taken in sifting through the corpses to separate departed friends from foes for proper burial, but the effort has not been launched yet. Gimli takes care not to look too closely for familiar faces, for while the tiredness keeps the sorrow at bay, the surrounding savagery would awaken it in but an instant. Neither he nor Legolas speak for a long while. Gimli's mouth tastes of blood, his head has yet to stop throbbing, and his arms and legs both burn with each movement. He can feel welts on all his limbs, where his wiggling underground has pushed the buckles and straps of his armour deep into his skin. But these are not the concerns at the forefront of his mind. No, he is occupied by the tense sides of Legolas' mouth, his stiff Elven neck, and the way he is _not_ swaying gracefully as he walks. His movements could never be called jerky but he is ungainly, which is most unelvish, and that is a worrying thing.

In the end, they meet Erkenbrand with nary another word between them, save for Gimli's soft directions into the wrecked hall. "And you were supposed to be our guide, Legolas!" he chuckles. It is a little too forceful and loud, and Erkenbrand looks over to them curiously. But Gimli's outburst serves its purpose, for Legolas shudders, as if awakening from a dream, and gazes down at him with bright, startled eyes, an astonished murmur escaping his lips.

"We would go to your fountain if you would allow it," Legolas asks of Erkenbrand as he regains his bearings, his head finally tilting in his customary Elvish manner before nodding in thanks when they are being directed through to one of the antechambers. The stone corridors are cold and narrow in the light of day, not designed for an injured Dwarf in full armour, but they reach their destination soon enough. 

The chamber housing the fountain is large, with very high ceilings partly carved into the mountain itself, rock formations stabilising the natural arches while wooden beams and mortar hold up the constructed parts. The stream originates at the mountainous back of the chamber, in between smoothed rocky piles. It flows through a shallow gouge to the middle of the room, where a small pool has been carved out and slightly raised to allow for a natural bowl to collect more water before it continues rushing down the gouge to the other side. A small opening in the constructed wall allows the stream to continue downwards unimpeded and serve other parts of the keep.

" _That_ is not a fountain," Gimli says.

Legolas huffs silently, shoulders shaking. "I uttered those exact words when I first laid eyes upon this… architecture."

"That I would believe!" Gimli exclaims, "although calling it architecture is praising it highly. Ingenious, though," he continues, head cocked, considering. "Dwarves would not have left the stream to its devices but harnessed it to some other purpose. And yet here it feeds both the higher and the lower levels of the keep, and must continue even further." 

"In that, it is similar to what we would do," Legolas says as he starts moving towards a stone bench laid close to the water pool.

To that, Gimli snorts. "You would have just left it. Elves!"

Legolas nudges him with a hip. "Isn't that what has been done here?"

"Not exactly. Notice the waterbed's depth and ragged edges: naturally occurring streams in rock would not be shaped such. And the rocks from which the stream comes have been piled after the fact, to better control the flow of water. The stream is natural, probably fed by a lake deep within the mountains, which is replenished every spring. And while the downward path has been conserved, much of what is here is more Man than mountain." As he talks, Gimli lays his helmet on the floor and starts methodically leaning his larger axes against the edge of the stone basin and the smaller ones against the base. He struggles with his crossed body-leathers, for they are yet slippery with enemy blood, and grunts as he resorts to pawing off his gloves. "Rather keep them on, what with being bloodied and all," he grouses.

"We are," Legolas murmurs, and that makes Gimli's head snap back up.

"None of that, now!" Gimli edges forward, grabbing Legolas' hands in his own, wary of that strange spell which seems to have ensnared the Elf as the dust settles in over their victory. He has yet to encounter this reaction from Legolas, but he has seen many a Dwarrow shocked dumb after bloodshed. But they have fought before, and Legolas is no youngster; so Gimli cautions his thoughts, for who knows of the reaction of Elves when facing battle and not skirmishes? He pulls Legolas closer to the basin and moves to unlace his leather armguards. Their hands make a stark contrast, for his palms and fingers are bruised but pristine, while Legolas' are rusted with old blood. "Ach, laddie, come now. Let us rinse this off."

"I feel a fool, so unsettled am I," Legolas whispers, his gaze inwards and his hands limp as Gimli plunges them into the basin. There is a small bar of rough soap sitting on the ledge of the rock pool: it is grey and brown, indicating others have preceded them here, and Gimli is inordinately pleased that it means they have more of a chance to be left alone. He would not have others witness the Elf's rare unease.

"Clear water will wash away the blood, my friend," he soothes, lathering the bar and squeezing Legolas' hands from wrist to the tip of his fingers. "A clean body is a clean mind."

Legolas tilts his head, birdlike as always, and seems to awaken once more. "Is that a Dwarvish saying?" His fingers are no longer lax and Gimli lets them go, lets Legolas scoop a handful of water and splash it over his face and neck. He does it once, twice, then starts rubbing almost savagely so Gimli stops him, takes his forearms and turns them away so as to finally remove the armguards.

"We have time," Gimli says, pausing before adding candidly, "I would see to you, Legolas."

"I would point out that I need no Dwarf to clean myself and see to my clothing, but these are no normal circumstances," Legolas sighs, his voice full of sorrow. "I cannot stop myself from dwelling, Gimli, upon the death I dealt to our enemies and the losses they have grievously wounded us with. My kin is lost, some that were older than even this keep!" His eyes close in pain and he sways alarmingly, so unsteady on his feet that Gimli rushes to seat him on the stone bench.

"And yet Rohan still stands, Elf, and Saruman is defeated. Do not give in to despair! For I yet live, while you thought me lost, and have won our wager besides. And so it will be, that we cannot anticipate the coming of the next Age but with hope that our actions will be sufficient to secure our goal." 

He sees the pale face frown in determination and Legolas take a steely breath. "You are right, mellon nín. As always, you Dwarvish pragmatism wins over my Elvish nonsense."

Gimli tuts, lightly slapping Legolas' white cheek and making him jerk back. "Your musings and misgivings are not nonsense, Elf. It is perfectly understandable, nay, expected, from one who has a marked preference for growing and living things." He leaves Legolas to his shirt as he slips off of his red brigandine and undoes his belt and mail skirt. 

"Neither are you a destroyer, and yet your mind does not wander off to dark paths." Legolas slips off his boots with a jerk, vexed, and starts undoing his shirt laces.

They have shared lodgings before, but never has it been so peaceful, with no expectation of coming battle or the weight of friends who were lost. The sound of rushing water is a balm to soothe ears deafened by battle cries and agony, overlaid with the soft rustling of clothes carefully stretched on the marbled ground for rapid cleaning. Gimli hums a little before answering. "Ah, but I am a Dwarf of many travels and have encountered much ignominy, while you are the furthest from home you have ever been. Peace, I do not mean anything by it," he adds quickly when Legolas shoots him a baleful look from underneath matted hair. "Just that I have had more time to learn how to deal with it. By Mahal, Legolas, your back!" Gimli is shocked by the black and blue covering Legolas' left side, from shoulderblade down to his middle back.

Legolas cranes his neck and shudders as he glances at his skin. "I was thrown against stone during the night. They will fade quickly," he reassures Gimli. "But they will be sore."

"Sit," Gimli blusters, disregarding the Elf's ridiculous statement. Sore! As if there were a reason to remain in discomfort. "I have a salve for them. I will not lean on you and aggravate them if we are to ride ere this evening."

"A salve? You are not exchanging healing aids with Aragorn, are you?" Legolas sounds slightly worried, as well he should be. Aragorn's healing is effective but it is not particularly painless.

"Nay, for this is a Dwarven remedy." Gimli grabs his belt and looks for the small inconspicuous pouch dangling from it. In it is a little pot which he unscrews with deft fingers. "Might be a mite cold," he warns, as spreads a thin, creamy layer unto the extensive bruising. Legolas hisses but keeps still, humming tunelessly as Gimli spreads more and more salve lower onto his back. This requires finesse; Gimli is aware that his hands are so large that one palm and its first phalanges spans the entirety of Legolas' narrow shoulderblade. He endeavours to barely touch the cool Elvish skin, hovering over the bruise instead and letting his body heat warm up the salve until it sinks in, white stuff turning clear as it is absorbed into the darkened flesh. Now Legolas' hum carries a clear note of surprise, for the salve is comfortably hot and numbing. Gimli chuckles as Legolas tilts his head back to look up to him, narrow skull comfortably pillowed by Gimli's unravelling and bushy braids.

"This is amazing stuff," he says fervently, seemingly unaware of the ridiculousness of looking up from upside down. "And you heat it with barely a touch! My body eases already." he pauses, and a small smile tilts one side of his mouth up. "And my mind is following." He pushes closer to Gimli, seeking soothing warmth. 

"Do not stretch your neck so, Legolas," Gimli chides, hardly concealing the relief he feels at Legolas' words. "This works but only if you let it. I would apply some to your nape too, for there is faint bruising there." He hesitates before continuing, "I would touch your hair to move it out of the way."

"Please do," Legolas says with a strange note in his voice, straightening his head and looking away. Gimli gathers the flaxen strands in his hands and piles them up high on the Elf's head, tying the hair bundle with a leather thong he liberates from the ends of his beard braid. He has carefully avoided the pointed ears, which have a pinkish tinge. He hopes it is not residual blood, but Elven ears seem to be a sensitive subject so he'd rather leave it at that. Same as Dwarven beards, really. The graceful nape now revealed is bruised on one side, the purple skin extending down into the one on Legolas' shoulder.

"Were you choked, bâhel?" Gimli asks as he spreads the salve again and hovers over it.

"They tried before I felled them. Mayhap I should have had a beard for them not to find my neck!"

"Who has ever heard of an Elf wishing for a beard! Maybe you just require better armour," Gimli counters with a smile. He swipes the remaining salve on his arms, rubbing it in vigorously over the welts littering his skin.

"Isn't that painful?" Legolas has turned over to face Gimli, and is watching him with interest.

"You worry about yourself, lad. And pass me the soap, will you?" Gimli hesitates but then unravels his beard braids, combing through the bushy strands and wetting them with water where there is blood caked into them. He starts from the bottom, quickly working his way up towards his mouth, and finishes by his temples and hairline, rinsing his wound and running the dirt and blood out along his beard. His hair is now a damp, clean burgundy and he binds it swiftly.

"You do not braid it?" Legolas asks, surprised. "And what of your wounds?"

"I'm not finished yet, am I?" For Gimli now starts on his hair, repeating the same process, the bushy strands all gathered onto one side. As he finishes he parts his hair in two sections, as he does his beard, and gathers all the strands on either side of his head to the back of his skull, bundling it up as he has done with Legolas. His bun is significantly larger.

"You do have a neck," Legolas says faintly. The pink tinge has now spread onto his entire ears, and Gimli wonders whether he should mention it. But his chest is hurting where his shirt has not sufficiently protected him from the chafing of his mail so he takes to the salve again, trying not to to feel self-conscious of the fact that Legolas is still staring. "I did not realise you were so heavily marked." There is dark knotwork extending from Gimli's shoulders to curl across each pectoral, detailed dotting in between dark curves and lines, seemingly licking at his chest. It is offset by a light dusting of red hair starting in between them and leading downwards, past Gimli's stomach. Legolas' eyes hurry upwards.

"Canvas for a friend," Gimli replies, his voice soft. He tends not to put his beard up often, so sometimes he forgets. "I've told you the marks on my arms and back are mourning marks, and mean much to me. But these… They tell of no remarkable tale or amazing deed. Actually, they remain a work in progress! For the artist added to the initial design slowly, as she was learning, which is why the left side is slightly sharper than the right, the curves and colours surer and more vibrant. She is now one of the most prized inkers in Erebor, and has little time to continue on with the flourish she desires."

"You would continue? "

"Why, my entire stomach is bare! There is space yet." Gimli laughs at Legolas' awed and horrified face. "Come now, Elves certainly know of artifices."

"Not _permanent_ ones! Although, if we were so inclined, I would mark today for a reminder of my sorrow and my joy."

"Joy… at our victory?" Gimli tries and guesses. He has finished rubbing his chest and wordlessly hands the pot to Legolas, turning away from him. "Just push it in as you've seen me do," he directs absently.

"Joy at discovering things I thought lost." Legolas applies salve to Gimli's massive back, trying different pressures until Gimli sighs in relief. "That Ents yet roam in Fangorn Forest, and that you survive."

"Pah, as if Orcs were to be my doom! My Dwarvish frame can handle them and more!"

"I can certainly see that," Legolas murmurs. "And so can Ents, it seems."

"Tell me more of them, Legolas," Gimli asks, suddenly eager. "I would prepare myself, for I can neither fathom their existence nor their hatred of axes. Will they attack me on sight?"

"Nay, mellon," Legolas laughs. He has finished applying the salve and so they rinse off their hands and turn to their soiled clothing. Armed with damp palms and the bar of soap, they start working the blood out of their garments. "As Gandalf said, they are the oldest living beings to still walk Middle-Earth," he picks up the thread of conversation easily. "Even Elves are but children to them. They have known all the Ages, starting from when the forest extended from Dunland to what is now the Shire. It is said that they are tall, taller than the tallest trees, and considering. So considering that what we deem slow decision-making is, to them, much too swift! They are the keeper of all green and living things and it is said..." And here Legolas hesitates. "It is said they were created because Yavanna feared for living things when she realised her husband had created the Dwarves. And so Ents came into being, to protect the plants and trees from them."

"They have crushed Orthanc, and decimated our remaining enemies. The One is great indeed, for that is a power that would stop us permanently." Gimli shivered.

"But they are not for you to fear, so do not dread this meeting!" Legolas cried. "I would beg for their favour and I would show you the wonders they shield. For Fangorn is old in ways we cannot comprehend, and the trees provide knowledge, comfort and protection. Why, there is flora that even I do not know about, and I would gladly walk through it and learn about all the knowledge that was lost. I would show you those natural marvels, older even than Khazad-dûm and Lothlórien combined, so you would not think to dread what was created to be your foil."

"If I am to go to Fangorn, you daft Elf, then you must visit what lies beneath our feet, if I ever have leave to dig a passage large enough for you to wriggle through. For the Caverns underneath this keep… Aye, I do not even know why they call them thus! The walls are like the sky on the blackest night, shimmering with the Earth's stars. I thought myself walking under the night sky, as you so often sing about, even as comforting stone surrounded me. There are lakes, both of water and of solid crystal, in which the glimmer of the caverns is reflected. Ah, Legolas, my words do not do them justice. For they were a balm as I made my way back to you during the fighting, and their thought stirs a desire to hone and shape them and make their beauty known." All the while Gimli had been dusting and cleaning off mail, brigandine and shirt, and makes to wear them again before remembering his hair. Taking it down, he quickly plaits it in his customary style, happy to note that the salve has done its work and the tightness in his muscles has lulled. 

"You were intent on reaching me?"

Gimli jerks back, surprised, as Legolas' face is much closer to his than it was scant seconds ago. His brow is furrowed and his ears are pink again. "Of course, fool Elf that you are," he grumbles. "Look at what happens to you when I am not within a throwing axe's distance! Come now, do not dawdle. You have yet to look presentable."

"I dare not ask, for I know you would say an Elf never looks presentable," Legolas laughs. It is light and airy, and he seems to have shaken the dark mood that had overcome him like a snake sheds an old skin. It is the talk of new and future things, Gimli suspects, that has awakened new hope. Like new growth with the coming of spring after a dreadful winter, and he knows this image would never have come to him a few months ago, but he cannot find fault in himself for the change. 

"You've taken the words right out of my mouth, lad," Gimli says peaceably. "But I was referring to your bundled hair!"

Legolas sends the leather thong sailing towards him with unerring accuracy, and Gimli sputters as Legolas combs out his hair and visibly shakes himself off. When they stride out together, to Gimli's ill-concealed delight, Legolas is singing.


End file.
